


Falling Hard

by BilletDoux



Category: Marvel
Genre: Comfort, Concussions, M/M, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7332805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BilletDoux/pseuds/BilletDoux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you've had as many concussions as Clint Barton's had, the effects begin to linger, and sometimes he needs someone to help him navigate the bad moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Hard

**Author's Note:**

> As always, my best friend Nat beta-read and edited this for me. She's a winner.  
> Hawkpool is fantastic because they're in love.

When Clint falls, he falls hard.

Not in the metaphorical in _love type_ way, but more in line with the literal _this is my third concussion in two months and I can't believe I'm still able to produce rational thought at this point_ type way.

When you've had as many concussions as Clint Barton has, you start to notice that slowly, subtly, things will begin to change.

All of those concussions have had a _lingering effect_ where Clint _just doesn’t feel like himself_ (that's what the doctor called it; that's what Kate calls it), where the entire world seems like it's screaming at him because signs are meaningless and words go in one ear and out the other without depositing any information for Clint's mind to process; everything turns into noise and rapid hand gestures instead of thoughts and language.

Hawkeye needs to be able to see and listen and evaluate. The world must be playing a cruel joke when Clint’s necessary skill set is slowly being stripped away from him. Iron man doesn't have to go through this bullshit.

These moments do not, however, make regular appearances. Clint wonders how long that will last, part of him frightened by how they'll evolve and expand in the future, but that's for then. This is now.

Unfortunately right now _sucks_ , because the light headed feeling just came back and Clint can't even fathom getting up from his space on the couch to go shove his ears between his knees in bed until his brain settles, until the world slows down. He wants Kate or Natasha or someone that's good at navigating this with him.

Clint hears a faint, brash noise ( _oh, good job, fuckwit, your hearing aids are still in, too_ ) from inside his apartment. A window sliding open? God, he hopes so. Hopes it's Kate.

Kate uses the front door.

It's not Kate.

_“You would not believe the absolute shit storm I have had to deal with tonight.”_

The world _must_ be fucking with him.

Briefly, Clint tried remembering if he ever gave Wade the A-OK to pop in whenever he damn well pleased. Not that it would matter for the time being, anyway. The mercenary is in civilian clothes similar to Clint's own, his mask hiked up over his nose so that Clint can see the movement of his mouth.

Clint’s brain is only picking up parts of what Wade is saying, going in and out like a bad radio connection.

_“Swear to god, there was a spider as big as my friggin’ head--”_

His fingers are balled up in his sweatpants, knuckles going white. Wade talks too fast and Clint's head is throbbing.

_“--Jesus Christ, remind me to send Daredevil my dry cleaning bill, because Mr. Chu did not take kindly to cleaning arachnid guts out of leather.”_

Please make it stop. Make it stop _make it stop make it stop make it stop make it sto-_

“Hey,” and there's a change in his tone. It becomes softer and more palatable. Clint can focus better. ”Slow?”

One word. He's down to one word. If it were anyone else on earth, even Kate or Natasha., Clint wouldn't be able to stand the embarrassment of this sort of vulnerability, but this is Wade. Wade never judged.

Clint nods, and Wade obliges. The seat next to him shifts downward slowly, and he feels Wade take his hand.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Clint doesn't get to see this part of Wade very often. Of course, the line of work he's entered doesn't usually require gentle hand touching, but that isn't the point.

He feels Wade tracing patterns into his palm, something to focus on. Sensation usually helps. Makes him feel grounded.

He doesn't know how long they're there for, hopes it isn't too long for Wade's sake, but the world starts to slow down again and Clint can't feel his forehead pounding anymore.

“Thank you, Wade” Clint sighs as he feels himself returning to his normal state of consciousness. He just feels tired now.

“You had any bad hits recently?”. Wade’s voice is still soft, but his cadence has gone back to its default.

“Last week,” Clint says, trying to adjust his body from the position he's been sitting in for an hour, at least, no doubt.

“God, okay, so from now on, leave the traumatic brain injuries to me, alright? Mine grows back.”

And Clint smiles that fucking gapped-toothed, Iowa-grown, bastard of a grin.

And Wade can feel himself falling hard enough for the both of them.


End file.
